


I Constantly Thank God for Dupin

by mokuyoubi



Series: Cinderella 'Verse [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Brencer retelling (sort of) of Cinderella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Constantly Thank God for Dupin

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an extremely late birthday present for xbeax.

The market was chaotic and stiflingly hot throughout the summer months. It smelled of sweat, excrement, and thanks to the position of the Miller stall next to the fishmonger’s, brackish water. For all of that, Brendon still preferred it to spending his time at home, where he spent the rest of the week waiting for Saturday to arrive.

It was a slow day at the market, no doubt due to the heat, and Brendon was bored, which was the only reason he noticed the man who came running around the corner, looking wildly around. He ducked low to the ground, and Brendon peered over the edge of his stall just in time to see the man crawl inside, crouching low under the table. The canvas cloth laid under the wares served to provide cover from the outside. From within, however, Brendon was afforded a fairly good look.

He was dressed in very nice clothing, and his dark gold hair was shiny and looked well cared for. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his pale forehead and dotting his full upper-lip.

“Hello,” Brendon said cautiously, and the man looked at him with startled eyes, as if _Brendon_ was the one who shouldn’t be there. “Can I help you?”

After a moment’s pause, the man gave Brendon a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Sorry, I—” He shook his head ruefully, still trying to catch his breath. His cheeks were red with exertion. Brendon offered his handkerchief, simply because it was the polite thing to do.

The man took it with and dabbed delicately at his face. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright?” Brendon asked. The man was clearly wealthy, and it wasn’t Brendon’s place to question the actions of the rich, but he couldn’t help being curious.

“It’s my tutor,” the man explained. “I begged off lessons today, said I was sick and snuck down here. If he sees me…”

“Ah,” Brendon said. He looked back towards the alley from which his guest had come, but no one was following, certainly no one in hot pursuit of an erstwhile student. “I think the coast is clear.”

The man nodded and said, “You wouldn’t mind, would you, if I stayed just a while longer? To be sure? I would be more than happy to purchase some of your…” here the man cast his glance around the back of Brendon’s stall “flour.”

For some inexplicable reason, Brendon felt himself giving the man an indulgent grin. “That won’t be necessary,” he said, and knew if his aunt found out he was turning down a potential customer, she’d box him about the ears. 

Brendon glanced around again, just to be sure, but no one was paying him any attention, even though he might seem to be, from an observer’s perspective, talking to himself. “I’m Brendon, by the way,” he said.

The man nodded, and said, “It is a pleasure, Brendon.”

Silence followed, and Brendon waited what he felt was a more than polite interval of time before coughing a little and saying, “And you are called?”

The man’s eyes flicked over Brendon’s face in an almost wary manner before he flashed a small grin. “I’m Spencer,” he said. For the first time, Brendon noticed Spencer was clutching a book to his chest, when he extended a hand for Brendon to shake.

Brendon wiped his flour-covered hands on his apron, but was still painfully aware of how dirty his hands looked in comparison to Spencer’s slender, pale ones, and how soft Spencer’s skin was, when Brendon’s was rough from work and jagged around the nail beds where he chewed when he was nervous. Spencer, thankfully, didn’t comment.

“Is—is that the new Dupin?” Brendon asked, nodding vaguely.

“Oh,” Spencer said. He looked at the book in his hand, as if startled by its existence. A faint blush covered his paling cheeks. “Part of the reason I came down. My best friend, he loves Dupin, but he’s been ill, and my parents don’t really approve.”

Brendon could understand that. He was wildly curious, but his aunt and uncle would definitely punish him if they found him reading what they considered to be a blasphemous piece of offal.

“Have you read any of his work?” Brendon asked. He didn’t mean to sound so eager, but either Spencer didn’t notice, or he didn’t mind.

“Ryan has made certain of it.” Spencer hesitated a moment before holding the book out. “You could look at it, if you like.”

“Oh, I really shouldn’t,” Brendon told him. His fingers itched to reach out, but he kept his hands fisted in the fabric of his apron.

A smile teased at the corner of Spencer’s mouth and he opened past the title plate and contents to the first page of text. Brendon cast a look around the market; there was a fair amount of traffic, but the shoppers today just weren’t interested in perusing his wares. He took a hesitant step towards Spencer and then another. Spencer tilted the book so that Brendon could more easily see the letters. Brendon couldn’t make any of them out, so far away.

Spencer licked his lips and drew a breath, then began to read out loud. By the end of the first paragraph, Brendon was leaning near to hear. By the end of the first page he was kneeling, facing the crowds. By the end of the first section he’d given up all pretence, tucked under the ledge at Spencer’s side, reading along silently as Spencer read.

Within the pages, Brendon completely forgot all concept of time. Spencer had very nice elocution, and there was a gentle rhythm to his voice. Sometimes Brendon didn’t entirely understand the vocabulary Dupin used, or his ideas, but in Spencer’s voice, it made more sense. 

Brendon was so lost in it that he actually jumped when someone rapped a fist on the table above him. He and Spencer exchanged startled looks. Brendon scrambled out, relieved when his eyes fell on Greta. She arched a brow at him, leaning forward to peek over the edge. Brendon crept closer. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Greta to see Spencer.

“Were you napping under there?” Greta asked. 

“Slow day,” Brendon said. He shrugged.

Greta gave him a pitying look. “Will your uncle be terribly upset? You can’t keep being made to sleep in the kitchens, Brendon. You’re going to fall ill.”

Brendon couldn’t fight a blush, and hoped that Spencer wasn’t paying any attention to what they were saying. “It’s alright,” he assured her. “The fireplace keeps it warm.”

Greta didn’t comment, but she leaned over to touch his hair fondly. “Remember that my offer still stands.” She took a step back, her basket hanging from her elbow, only a few clippings remaining. “You should be heading back before it gets too dark, what with Diamond’s shoe in the condition it’s in. See you next week.”

Brendon waved her off, and in the silence, he avoided looking in Spencer’s direction. After a moment, Spencer cleared his throat. “I really must be going. I’ve kept you from your work too long.”

“Oh, no,” Brendon said quickly. “All my regular customers come in the morning. No one really buys flour on a whim.”

“Even so,” Spencer said. “I’d like to purchase a few bags myself, to repay you for your hospitality.”

“Please.” Brendon was a little desperate not to have Spencer buy any flour. “It was my pleasure. You saved me from my own boredom, and no one would have bought any from me, anyway.”

But Spencer was already fumbling inside his jingling coin purse. “I have the money,” he said.

“I couldn’t take it,” Brendon insisted.

Spencer paused, and his eyes narrowed. “We both know why you’ve put up with my presence as long as you have. At least let me pay you for it.”

“I—what?” Brendon’s brain worked quickly to try to make sense of what Spencer had said, but to no avail. 

“Like how you didn’t know my name already,” Spencer sneered.

“I—” Brendon shook his head fervently. Somehow this entire situation had gotten away from him, and he felt very distinctly like he’d missed some important part of their conversation. “I’m sorry. Should I have? Have you bought from my aunt and uncle before?” Brendon asked. “I’ve only been coming to this market for a few months. I was living with my parents before, and until they passed away, I’d never even been here, and now I only come on Saturdays.” 

Brendon was aware he was babbling, and was vaguely mortified by it, but it was a habit he had, when he was nervous or confused, and Spencer wasn’t stopping him, though his expression was softening again.

“I don’t know of any Spencers. Well, except for this old man who had a bookshop back in Blissford. And my neighbour’s cat when I was twelve. And, of course, the Prince.”

Spencer arched a pointed brow, and Brendon took a hurried step back and dropped into a low bow. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness—”

“Stop,” Spencer said, and Brendon straightened at once. His eyes automatically went to Spencer’s, and he looked away again quickly, recognising the inappropriateness of it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so rude,” Spencer said. The _prince_ was apologising to _Brendon_. This couldn’t be real life. 

“It is I who has been rude, Your Highness,” Brendon said, and sketched out another quick bow in apology. 

“You’re going to draw attention, would you…” He stopped and let out a sigh, and Brendon risked a look to see Spencer— _the prince_ —touching a hand to his forehead. “You can stop standing at attention.”

Brendon tried to make his shoulders relax, he really did, but it wasn’t working. Sp—the prince was giving him a considering look that made Brendon’s stomach squirm. “You really didn’t know I was…who I was?”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Brendon said. He couldn’t make his voice work properly; it came out somewhat breathless and choked. “I’ve never seen your likeness. Had I known—”

“Stop, Brendon.” Brendon did as he was told, muscles tensing even more. The prince’s hand fell on Brendon’s shoulder, and Brendon couldn’t fight the way he jerked back as if burnt. “I’m sorry,” the prince said. He pulled his hand back to his chest.

“Please don’t apologise, Your Majesty,” Brendon heard himself murmur. God, he felt so small and insignificant, and something else he couldn’t even begin to name, that fluttered desperately, high in his chest.

“If you won’t let me purchase any of your flour, at least take this,” the prince said. He held out the Dupin in his lovely hand. His even, shiny fingernails looked delicate against the blue of the cover.

“Your friend,” Brendon demurred.

The prince made a dismissive noise. “He can wait for it a while longer. He has plenty of books to tide him over.”

“Ah, Prince Spencer, there you are,” an amused voice said. Brendon lifted his gaze in time to see the prince’s grimace, and over his shoulder, a rather intimidating-looking man heading their way.

“Brendon, I’m sorry,” the prince repeated. “Please take it.” He held the book out further, and still Brendon couldn’t bring himself to take it.

“Jonathan can only cover for you so long, Your Highness,” the other man said.

“Thank you, Zachary,” the prince said, a bit shortly. He looked down at the book. “If you don’t want to keep it, you can at least borrow it. Until next weekend.”

Brendon couldn’t help the look of blatant disbelief he gave the prince at the mere suggestion. But the prince just smiled and finally, finally stepped away from Brendon, turning to Zachary. On his way out of the stall, he laid the book on the table. 

* 

Greta might have thought Brendon’s situation pitiful, but he’d grown to see the silver lining. True, the straw pallet he slept on did little to cushion the stone floor, and the worn blankets couldn’t keep out the chill from the draft that snuck under the kitchen door. He spent his mornings preparing breakfast for the family and doing the laundry, and his evenings at dinner and tidying up the house. All the time between slaving over the quern stone.

It was hard work, so tiring and menial, but considering the fact that he could have been sold to a work house when his parents died, Brendon couldn’t really complain. There was always the promise of freedom when he reached his majority. 

Most days he could manage to keep a fire going low but steady until the early hours of the morning, and it was quieter in the kitchens than in the sleeping quarters—he didn’t have to hear his uncle’s wall-rattling snores, or his cousin’s late night giggles and bickering.

The hard labour meant he slept heavily at night, and working in the kitchen meant he was never hungry. The embers of the fire at night were bright enough to read by, and so long as Brendon could distract himself with the written word—lose himself in the lives and intrigues he found there—he didn’t have to dwell on thoughts of how his life might have been, if his parents hadn’t died.

Usually, Brendon relaxed before bed by reading one of the few books he’d managed to bring with him from home. Tonight, after cleaning up the kitchen, tending to the fires in the sleeping quarters of his family, and emptying the chamber pots, Brendon curled up at the hearth, and carefully drew out the Dupin.

For a long moment, Brendon could only hold it, stroking the blue cloth of the cover, eyes tracing the gold of each of the shapes of the letters in the words of the title. There was a lingering feeling of disbelief that Brendon couldn’t shake, whenever he thought of or looked at this book. 

The prince had purchased this book—held it in his delicate, pale hands, read aloud from it for Brendon to hear. Brendon still couldn’t believe the liberties he had taken with his prince, that he’d failed to recognise him, and used his name without an honorific. And yet, rather than reproving him, the prince had left this book—purchased for his friend—in Brendon’s care.

This was the first time he’d dared to bring it out of its hiding place behind a loose hearth stone since arriving home the previous evening. He couldn’t risk his family seeing him with it, but that was only part of the reason. The rest was that he was honestly intimidated by the idea of opening it. He’d already had his grubby hands all over the outside of it. How could he even think of turning its pages, soiling them with flour and dirt, accidentally creasing them.

Brendon wondered if Spen—the prince would actually return for the book on Saturday, and what Brendon would say if he did. Would it be worse to return the book in an imperfect condition or to not have read it at all?

In the end, Brendon’s curiosity got the better of him. At this late hour, Brendon was certain none of the family would be wandering into the kitchen. It was as safe as it would ever be, so Brendon opened the pages, flipped past the pages Spencer had read to him, and settled in for a long night. 

* 

On Saturdays, Brendon woke even earlier than usual, dressing and packing in the dark. Sometimes his uncle would be up before Brendon left, most often with warnings and threats about how much Brendon should sell. After, Brendon would set out with his cart and pony, and make the nearly three hour ride into the city.

Brendon arrived just as the market was beginning to open. Other stalls were already opened for business. There were few customers about yet—only restaurant owners and servants for the wealthy looking for a quick start on the day. The morning passed quickly after Brendon set up. There were his regular customers, who came on weekly or monthly bases, who kept Brendon occupied throughout the morning.

Though Brendon never particularly minded the work, he was especially thankful for it now. It kept him from thinking too much about the prince’s promise to return. It would no doubt be easier for him to just by another copy of the book for his friend than to come down to the market to visit Brendon.

At first, Brendon barely gave a second glance to the stranger in the hat loitering at the wall around the side of his stall as he dealt with Mrs. Taylor. But after she’d gone the man still lingered, so Brendon turned to greet him. The man tipped the hat to the side and stepped forward to the table, and Brendon’s jaw nearly dropped in disbelief.

“Please don’t start bowing,” the prince said in a low tone.

“I didn’t think you would actually come,” Brendon said, the words out before he could stop himself. 

The prince smiled, and Brendon also couldn’t stop the way his heart began to beat faster at the sight. “I am a man of my word.”

“I have no doubt of it,” Brendon assured him. His cheeks coloured with the thought that he had implied otherwise. “I took good care of your friend’s book,” he said, and fumbled in his pouch to produce it.

The prince didn’t reach out to take the book, but instead looked around them. “Can I come in again? I don’t think Zachary followed me, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

It wasn’t as if Brendon could deny the prince whatever he wanted, and though he was almost afraid to admit it even to himself, Brendon thrilled at the idea of the prince staying longer. All the same, “I don’t really think the floor of my stall is any place for the prince to be sitting.”

But Brendon was ignored, and the prince took up the same position he had the week before, looking almost cheerful as he crouched under the table. His clothes weren’t as fine as the one’s he’d been wearing last time, perhaps as part of his plan to go undetected. They were clean and nicely made, but they were of rougher, plainer fabric, and not tailored to fit the prince’s form. No one would look twice at a man wearing these garments.

When he’d settled in, the prince nodded his head to the book Brendon still held. “Did you have a chance to read it?”

“I could’nt put it down, once I had opened it,” Brendon admitted. He’d been sorry for it the next day when he awoke after only an hour’s sleep, but it had been worth it. All week his mind had been ablaze with the ideas that Dupin’s words sparked within him.

It was quite shocking, really, to think that a friend of the prince’s enjoyed Dupin’s work. Much of this new book criticised the institution of monarchy, calling for an upheaval of the system and equality among all men and women. Perhaps it was simply that the man had not yet read this book, and that he would no longer be a fan of Dupin’s work once he had.

“Apparently Ryan couldn’t to wait to read it either,” the prince said. There was a wry twist to his lips. “While I was purchasing it for him, he sent out one of the servant boys with the same task.”

“But if he already has a copy, why did you come back for this one?” Brendon asked.

The prince’s gaze slipped from Brendon’s face to the dusty floor of the stall. When he did not immediately answer, Brendon knelt before him. It felt strange, to be standing above his prince when everything he’d learned, everything inside him said he should be prostrate. “Your Majesty?”

“I really wish you would call me Spencer again,” he said.

“I—” Brendon floundered about for an appropriate response, but none came to mind. His mind was rather appallingly blank at the moment, as a matter of fact.

“Other than Ryan and Jonathan, I don’t really have any friends,” the prince said. “Everyone’s nice to me because I’m the prince. _You_ were nice to me when I was a complete stranger.” “Yes, but…” Brendon gestured helplessly around them, hoping the prince would understand without Brendon having to spell it out. 

It was impossible for the prince to suggest that Brendon could be his friend. It wasn’t that Brendon had so many friends of his own that he could just turn down offers of friendships, or that he didn’t think the prince was a kind and interesting person, but it was more complicated than that. There were rules in life that Brendon had learned to resign himself to years ago, when his parents had left him and he’d been separated from his siblings and sent to live and work for his aunt and uncle. The most important rule Brendon had learned dealt with his place in life, and not trying to reach beyond it.

“Brendon, what is the point of reading Dupin’s words if they do not encourage us to think and act? I am a prince because of an accident of birth, not because of any innate quality I possess. But I hope that when I become king I can prove to my people that I am worthy of the title. And know that any person equal to the task of assisting in the governing this nation will be afforded the opportunity to serve as advisor, regardless of where or to whom they were born.”

“That is a very noble thought, Your Majesty, and I have no doubt that all of your people will regard you as a fair and kind ruler. And although I’m certain there are men and women among my class with the capability to which you refer, I am not one of them. I’m a miller.”

The look the prince gave him was fierce. “When I am king, I hope no one will feel that they cannot rise above that which they have been born into.”

“I hope so, too,” Brendon said. “But you won’t be king for many years yet, and until then, we must all learn to be content with our lot in life.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” the prince said. He reached into the folds of the cloak around his shoulders and came out with a small, battered black book. “I brought this for you.”

Brendon knew his face must show his dismay when he reached for it. “I cannot keep taking these books from you,” he murmured. “If my aunt and uncle had found the last—”

“I’ll take that one back, then,” the prince said. “And you can bring this one back next week.”

“Your Majesty—” Brendon protested. His words died in his throat when the prince reached out, wrapping his fingers over Brendon’s, closing them tightly over the book. His touch was like a shock under Brendon’s skin and Brendon had to shut his eyes for a moment, for fear of what they might betray.

“Please read it, Brendon.” The prince’s voice was soft and earnest, and even if he hadn’t been the prince, Brendon didn’t think he could deny that request. He nodded his agreement. 

The prince rose from his huddled position and took the blue book from where Brendon had laid it on the table top. “I can’t linger any longer today. Zachary is bound to notice my absence soon if he hasn’t already.”

“Of course,” Brendon said numbly.

The prince paused at the side of the stall, tucking his hat low over his brow. “Maybe when I return next week, you’ll greet me by my name.”

Brendon doubted that very much, but he didn’t voice his opinion out loud. 

* 

There was no chance for Brendon to even look at the black book the prince had given him until Wednesday. Sunday was full with the washing and mending of the Miller’s laundry on top of his regular chores, and a storm during the night knocked out part of their fence and put two holes in the roof over the mill. Brendon spent the entirety of Monday repairing all the damage. The labour was apparently more strenuous than he was used to, because his entire body ached at the end of the day, and he fell asleep barely after closing his eyes.

Tuesday was just as exhausting, as Brendon was occupied with playing catch-up on all the work he’d missed Monday. Early harvests of the spring wheat were already coming in, which meant more work than Brendon had grown used to during the summer. 

Through it all Brendon had to listen to the constant nagging of his cousins and a steady stream of beratment from his aunt and uncle. Normally Brendon could ignore them, and they were no worse than usual, but somehow it was different this time. He wanted to snap at them - tell them to do the work themselves. Of course he held his tongue, but it was a near thing.

In every quiet moment, Brendon couldn’t help but think about what the prince had said. For some reason, whenever he did, he was reminded of being a boy in his parent’s home, and the dreams he’d fostered then of becoming a great composer someday. He remembered the Christmas his parents had surprised him with a piano they could barely afford, because they’d believed, like Spencer, that one’s fate was not sealed at birth. And, in the privacy of his mind at least, he allowed himself to think of the prince as Spencer.

On Wednesday, Brendon opened the book. There was no title or name on the cover or the spine, nothing to give him any clue what lies within the pages. The first several lines left him confused, with no context, but he kept reading, and after a few pages, the subject of the book became clearer.

This book was older than Dupin’s by quite a lot, and no where near as radical, but there were a lot of the same ideas within. This author was more interested in the individual than the state. He spoke of freedom not of the body, but of the spirit and the mind. The pages of the book were thin and creased from use, and there were sometimes small notes scratched in the margins in a spidery hand. Brendon read them all, wondering if they were Spencer’s or if they belonged to his friend, Ryan. 

He wanted to ask about that, and other things, too, that he hadn’t quite understood between this text and Dupin’s, and though his stomach still fluttered at the idea of posing these questions to his prince, Brendon thought that perhaps he might, if Spencer did indeed show up again at his stall. 

* 

It started raining shortly after Brendon had erected his stall. The stock was kept safe under the table, shielded on both sides by tarp, but Brendon himself was soon drenched through and through. The weather didn’t slow down the traffic entirely, and soon the market was a muddy mess, with puddles of water left behind wherever anyone stepped.

Though he’d tried not to get his hopes up in the first place, Brendon couldn’t help a stab of disappointment to think that there was no way Spencer would come out in this sort of weather. So it came as quite a surprise to see the prince appear through the gloom of rain and fog, ducking around the side of Brendon’s stall and beneath the table, much as he had at their first meeting. Brendon could only blink at him through the water dripping from the ends of his hair.

Spencer beckoned to him. “It’s actually quite dry under here,” he said.

Brendon found he didn’t even care what his aunt and uncle would say, to know he was ignoring his post, and ducked under next to Spencer. He almost sighed in relief, out of the relentless onslaught. Spencer shrugged out of the damp cloak over his shoulders, tossing it aside carelessly. He flicked his head back and Brendon was caught in a shower of water droplets. Spencer’s hair fell back around his head in disarray, but Brendon thought he still looked very princely. 

“Sorry,” Spencer said, and reached out with his mostly dry sleeve to dab at the water running in rivulets down Brendon’s face. Brendon stayed still under his ministrations, not daring even to breathe. Spencer was close enough that Brendon could feel his breath warm against his cheek. It was unnerving, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away. 

“Thank you,” he breathed, when Spencer drew back.

Spencer’s eyes darted over Brendon’s face and he said, almost absently, “You’re welcome.”

There was a strange silence under the table, with only the steady patter of rain above them. Brendon turned to the carefully shielded flour stock and fished out the black book from it’s hiding place. “I read it all,” he said, laying the book on Spencer’s knee. “I think I liked it better than the Dupin.”

“Oh?” Spencer asked. He tilted his head to the side. The small smile that teased at the corners of his lips that made Brendon’s fingers tingle.

“Well, I didn’t understand all of it--of either of them--but this one made me feel more hopeful?”

Spencer gave a small chuckle. “If you ever meet Ryan, you should probably not tell him that.”

“Are those his notes, or yours?” Brendon asked.

Spencer stroked the cover of the book fondly. “They’re actually Jonathan’s. He prefers Bennett to Dupin. It is a debate he has held with Ryan far many times to count.”

“Which do you prefer?” It was stuffy under the table, difficult to draw a lungful air, which must be the reason Brendon felt so breathless.

“There are parts of both that resonate within me, and parts with which I do not agree, but on the whole--though you must never tell Ryan--I too prefer Bennett. I like the idea of each of us creating our own destiny.”

“It is a nice thought,” Brendon allowed.

“But you don’t believe it could be a reality,” Spencer finished for him.

Brendon looked away, watching the rain form rivers in their tracks outside the table. “I believe that you would like to make it a reality, Spencer,” he said. When he snuck a look, he was rewarded with a blinding smile that made his stomach squirm.

“How can I fail, if you have placed your faith in me?” Spencer asked him softly, and Brendon felt himself smiling in return, like they were sharing some secret between them. 

When Spencer let his shoulder rest against Brendon’s, Brendon managed to keep from jumping, willing himself to relax into it. He couldn’t help the way his heart pounded, though. They sat that way for a long while, and then Spencer began to talk again, telling Brendon all his ideas for how things would change, when he became king. Brendon closed his eyes and listened, and believed. 

* 

Every Saturday, without fail, Spencer came to the market. Sometimes he could only stay a short while, and sometimes he stayed for hours. Each time he brought Brendon a new book. They were sometimes political or philosophical favourites of Jon or Ryan, but more often Spencer brought the fictions that he himself preferred.

They would talk about the books, or Spencer would tell Brendon about a play he saw or a symphony he heard, or he would ask Brendon questions. Brendon did what he could to steer the conversations away from himself; anything he might have to say Spencer could only find boring in comparison to his own life, but sometimes Spencer could get him to talk about growing up in Blissford. Brendon spoke of his mother teaching him the songs of her native land, and of playing with his siblings in the forest on the edge of town. He recounted the story of the time he and Kara had found a baby bird fallen from the nest and raised it in a dresser drawer until it had been strong enough to go on its own. He confided in Spencer how much he missed Blissford though he supposed it was less the place he missed, and more the family he’d had there.

Brendon hadn’t realised just how lonely he’d been, since moving in with his aunt and uncle, until he grew to crave these weekly visits. Now he didn’t know what he would do without them. In his entire life, Brendon never had a friend like Spencer. He’d been close to his siblings and they mostly got along, and there were children near his age in Blissford with whom he’d played, but he’d never really talked about anything that meant anything with them. Through Spencer, Brendon found his own thoughts and opinions--sometimes the same as Spencer’s, sometimes different--taking shape.

“Why is it you live with your aunt and uncle?” Spencer asked Brendon, one one of their Saturdays in late August. Brendon’s surprise and dismay must have shown on his face, because Spencer quickly said, “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Brendon shrugged. “My parents both died of fever last winter,” he said, in as even a voice as he could manage. “All my older brothers were just starting out--they didn’t have the means to care for me, and my father’s brother took my sister in, but there was no place for me. So my mother’s sister took me.”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer said. “I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s alright,” Brendon interrupted. He looked across the marketplace rather than down at Spencer, not eager to see the pity in his eyes. “I miss them, but I’m thankful that my aunt and uncle took me in.”

“Do they...” Spencer trailed off and then, after a moment, spoke more softly. “Do they really make you sleep on the kitchen floor.”

Brendon had almost forgotten that Spencer had overheard Greta saying that, all those weeks ago. Now his cheeks burned in shame. He couldn’t tell Spencer the truth about how he lived. There were already so many glaring differences between their two lives.

“Greta worries far too much,” he said in an offhand tone. “It’s only ever been once or twice, for punishment.” He risked a look and found Spencer frowning at the ground, biting his lip. “I’m fine, Spencer. They treat me well.” He felt the need to assure Spencer of it, not out of embarrassment, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of Spencer worrying over him.

“Brendon,” Spencer said, in a slow, precise manner. “Do you _want_ to be a miller?”

“It is a good profession,” Brendon said, leaving out the part where he knew his uncle wouldn’t dream of leaving the mill to him. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Spencer said.

“I don’t have many prospects.”

“If you could do anything you wanted, what would you do?” Spencer asked.

It was a silly exercise, but Brendon generally indulged Spencer, regardless. “When I was little, I always said I would become a famous pianist and composer.”

Spencer smiled one of his smiles that made the sunlight seem dimmer. Brendon’s chest ached as if empty and full to the bursting at the same time. “I would love to hear you play someday,” Spencer said.

“Someday,” Brendon echoed. He could be wistful here, where being with Spencer made anything seem possible. 

* 

By the beginning of September, it had grown quite chilly, and though the ride into the city was a miserable one, Brendon made it cheerfully. Though weather had never before had much of an impact on the marketplace, today it was positively dead. It did make the day drag on interminably, and Brendon didn’t know what he would say to his uncle when he came home with so little profit.

Generally, Brendon left for home in the late afternoon, and with winter approaching his days were cut shorter still. He would have to leave by four at the latest, and when he chanced a glance at the clock tower across the square, he saw that it was after three already, and no sign of Spencer at all. Brendon had been waiting all week to discuss the book Spencer had left with him, and now it seemed as though he’d have to wait another week.

Across the alley, Greta’s stall was the exception of the market place, not a single bud left among her flowers. She had finished tidying up, and as she passed his stall on her way out, Brendon called her over. “It’s been an awfully slow day,” he remarked.

“Oh, I suppose everyone’s getting ready for the ball,” she said, and at Brendon’s blank look, she shook her head. “I forget sometimes, that you’re only down for the day. The king and queen are throwing a masque ball tonight, in honour of Prince Spencer’s birthday. They’ve invited all the eligible ladies in the land, and said that tonight the prince will choose his future bride.” Greta seemed downright cheerful about it as she left, empty basket in hand.

Before he could squash it, a feeling of helpless sadness blossomed in Brendon’s chest. It was ridiculous. Of course Spencer would marry a girl—one with royal blood, no less. The commoners might find love and marry whoever they pleased, but a prince needed a _princess_ to bear his children.

If Brendon felt any disappointment he put it down to the fact that once Spencer was married, he’d be too busy with his new wife to steal away to the market and hang out with poor, boring Brendon. He shook himself from his self-pity and then almost jumped when he saw the man standing at the open side of his stall, staring at him in a most unnerving way. Brendon hastily swiped at his cheeks and stood up straighter. “Can I help you?” he asked, and was rather proud of how normal his voice sounded.

“I think,” the man said, leaning closer, “it is I who can help you.”

Brendon fought the urge to take a wary step back. The man was very nicely dressed, with a jewelled broach at the ruffled cravat on his throat and a silver trimmed tricorne tucked under one arm. The buckles on his shoes still shone even in the dust and muck of the market streets. And yet, it would be getting dark soon, and there was something in the man’s glittering eyes and smiling lips that made Brendon uneasy.

“If you mean to purchase the rest of my stock, that would be very helpful indeed,” Brendon said gamely, with a winning smile. It was true that the trip was much easier, the lighter the burden and with the lack of business today, he couldn’t really afford to pick and choose his customers. 

The man’s smile didn’t waver, his eyes didn’t blink. Brendon resisted the urge to fidget. At length he said, “You know, there have been some fairly spectacularly shocking matches in the past—that little French mermaid wed a human, and Ashlee somehow made that Beauty and the Beast thing work for real but no one’s ever got a prince to marry a milliner’s _son_.”

Some inane part of Brendon’s brain wanted to correct, “ _Miller’s_ nephew,” but actually he couldn’t get his mouth to work much at all except to say, “Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s alright,” the man said. “I have nothing against it personally, obviously.” Brendon, personally, thought there was nothing obvious about anything at the moment. “Anyway,” he continued, “you want to go to the ball, right?”

What Brendon wanted, as far as Spencer or the ball was concerned really didn’t matter. The man shifted impatiently. “Look, just come with me,” he said.

“Er—I really can’t leave my stand,” Brendon said. It was a safe way to turn down the…invitation? There was no way the man could be offended by that—Brendon’s aunt and uncle would kill him if he wasn’t home on time, and with all their unsold merchandise safe and sound.

The man blinked as if noticing Brendon’s wares for the first time. “Oh, right.” He fished around in his jacket to produce a coin purse that was heavy when he laid it in Brendon’s palm. “This should cover it, I imagine?” Brendon nodded dully. Before he could ask if the man had a way to transport the flour, the man made another gesture and all the flour was gone. No dramatic poofing sound, no smoke, just gone.

“Now,” the man said, “come along.” He grabbed Brendon’s arm and began to lead him away.

“But,” Brendon protested, though he didn’t fight the man’s hold on him. “I don’t even know you. You don’t—”

“Oh,” the man said again, with a slightly sheepish grin. “I’m Pete, you’re Brendon, and I’m your fairy godmother.” 

* 

Pete had a fancy carriage led by some truly beautiful golden brown horses that put Brendon’s old grey pony to shame. For the brief ride, Pete prattled on about different colours and cuts of fabric that might work for Brendon’s formalwear. 

“But I can’t even get in!” Brendon said.

With a flourish, Pete produced a beautifully decorated blue and gold card from thin air. Brendon got the impression Pete liked to show off like that. He scanned the fancy script and frowned. “And what happens when this Lord Beckett accuses me of stealing his invitation?”

“Oh, I doubt he’ll be a problem,” Pete said. His eyes glinted in a most disarming manner. “I got him drunk and popped him across the pond. I think he is _quite_ content with his current situation with a dashing Duque by the name of Gabriel. I am seriously awesome at this match-making thing.”

Brendon didn’t know what to say on that subject, so he just said, “But someone’s sure to realise I’m not him.”

“Bill lives fairly far up north, and he finds these city parties a bit…tame for his tastes. I don’t think he’s been down in a couple years, at least.”

Brendon still wasn’t entirely happy with the whole situation, but Pete had made the flour _disappear_ , so he was a little distracted and disoriented, and couldn’t really think of any other protests.

“A milliner’s son,” Pete mused, mostly to himself. “This is epic.”

“Actually, my uncle is a _miller_ ,” Brendon corrected, unable to keep the irritated tone from his voice.

Pete gave him a contemplative look. “That would explain the flour,” he said. “And it sounds just as good.”

They pulled up to a lovely three storey house in what Brendon suspected was the trendy part of town. The first thing they heard upon entering was a woman calling, “Pete, what exactly would you like done with the ridiculous amounts of flour in the pantry?”

Pete bit down on a grin. “I don’t know, Ash. You’re a girl, you’ll figure it out.”

There was the sound of a man giggling and Ash’s indignant huffing, followed by the smack of skin on skin. Pete led him through the hall to a warm-looking sitting room with two rather attractive redheads, dressed rather oddly, the man rubbing at his bare arm.

“This is Patrick and Ashlee, my partners in crime,” Pete introduced. “They’ll be helping to make sure that everything goes smoothly tonight.”

“Because if we let Pete do your makeup, the guests might think you had been abused,” Ashlee said to Brendon sidelong.

“And if we left it up to Ashlee to dress you, I doubt they’d let you past the front door, invitation or not,” Patrick broke in smoothly. 

“And if we left it up to Patrick, your hat would be some ridiculous creation with live birds or some such nonsense,” Ashlee said sweetly. She and Patrick shared poisonous but somehow affectionate looks, then bumped their shoulders together.

“So,” Pete said, and clapped his hands together. “Let’s get started.” 

* 

Brendon gave his reflection an uncertain look. His three...godparents...(Patrick had explained that Pete wasn’t actually _Brendon’s_ godfather, but _a_ godfather, and that was all that really mattered here) had conjured from his worn and patched clothes a sky blue waist coat, embroidered all over with threads of silver, with a matching tailcoat and falls of snowy lace at his throat and wrists, and breeches of brown doeskin. A matching purse held the day’s earnings, as well as the book Spencer had lent him.

Ashlee had rimmed his eyes in dark brown and rouged his cheeks, then given him a clear gloss for his lips that made them feel slick, made them shine. Patrick had styled his hair in soft waves around his face and conjured a columbino mask of midnight blue and glittering silver. It made Brendon’s eyes look even darker than usual, sharper and more exotic.

In the end, Brendon decided it worked, if only because he looked nothing like himself. Though he doubted he would see Spencer at all, it was good to know that if he did Spencer would not recognise him like this. And he supposed, speaking objectively, that he looked almost handsome.

“Perfect,” Ashlee told him, from over his shoulder.

“ _Almost_ perfect,” Pete corrected.

They turned his old grey pony Diamond (who was somehow miraculously in their stables) into a glorious gold mare to match Pete’s own, and his old cart became a sparkling contraption of gold and polished mahogany to which they were hitched. Patrick took the duty of coachman, and Pete of footman, dressed in matching white and gold.

Ashlee stopped Brendon as he was climbing into the coach. He was still functioning mostly in stunned disbelief, following along because he didn’t really know what else to do, and he listened as she explained to him that he must leave the masque by midnight, because these things always had a time limit, you see.

It wasn’t until Brendon had arrived at the palace and somehow made his way past the entrance with his borrowed invitation that the reality of his attending the ball really sunk in. There were thousands of candles lit in the ballroom, casting the room in a golden glow, and on the floor, there were so many glorious masks and gowns and beautiful people that it all seemed like a dream.

“Beckett,” one of the older gentleman greeted Brendon. “You don’t look anything at all like your father.”

Brendon wasn’t certain how to respond to that, but thankfully the lady who was the gentleman’s companion spoke for him, saying, “I’m certain he still has a bit of growing left to do.”

And so, besides not a few comments on Brendon’s inadequate height, no one seemed to notice anything amiss with his portrayal of Lord Beckett.

There were slender flutes of bubbling champagne and delicate but delicious hors d’oeurves with more flavours than Brendon had known existed. More than one lady gave him a pointed look, as though they wished to dance, but Brendon knew that stepping on the floor would give him away. He’d much rather watch, anyway. The elegant movements of the dancers, and the way the ladies’ skirts flared and swirled, was quite pleasing to the eye. At least, until Brendon realised why so much attention was being paid to the centre of the floor.

It was there that Spencer was dancing with partner after partner, his movements the most precise and lovely of all, his hair shining golden under the light. The pink and brown of his suit was perfectly tailored to his form, bringing out the blue of his eyes and the flush in his pale skin. Spencer, so beautiful that it made Brendon ache with unbearable longing, dancing with those women from among whom he would choose a princess.

Suddenly Brendon realised what he wanted, and knew at once could never have. He was sick, his stomach surging up to his throat. He wanted to find Pete and demand to know he’d been sent here, to watch while the only thing that gave him pleasure in his life was taken away from him. It was cruel and unfair, and on top of it all, when Brendon returned home his uncle would no doubt take a switch to him for being so late, money or not. There’d been no point in his coming at all.

Brendon stumbled out onto a balcony, drawing deep, harsh breaths of the crisp night air. There were some party-goers spread out over the lawn and in the maze where lanterns cast away the shadows and the music was distant but clear. It was too festive still for Brendon, but he couldn’t leave yet. It wasn’t even ten, and Pete had said they would return for Brendon just before the clock tolled midnight.

So instead Brendon went back inside the palace, through the grand ballroom echoing with laughter, and beyond to empty hallways. He was afraid to wander too far, but after a few turns he found a rather cosy sitting room that seemed more suited to a nice country home than a castle. There was a fire burning low, and tucked in the corner, a beautiful grand piano, which is what drew Brendon in.

Brendon took a seat on the padded piano bench, and for the first time noticed how much the fancy boots Pete had conjured from his work boots pinched his feet. It was probably a good thing dressing like this would never be a regular concern of his. He toed them off and kicked them out of the way of the pedals, wiggling the feeling back into his toes.

The piano was a thing of beauty, and Brendon took a moment to admire it. The piano his parents had given him had been purchased used, the finish scratched in places, the keys chipped from wear. More often than not it was in need of tuning, and Brendon had done his best to care for it, but there was only so far love and passion could take him without know-how.

This piano was polished and draped in an embroidered shawl, and the keys looked untouched. When he played a few notes, he found it perfectly in tune, which was no great surprise, but made it impossible for him to resist the urge to play.

As Brendon began to play, the music drowned out the distant sounds of the party. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend he was home--not at his aunt and uncle’s, but in Blissford. He was in the sitting room with his mother and sister sewing, and his father whittling while his brothers played backgammon.

He’d been happy there, and better than that, he’d been content. He’d never had a _prince_ telling him he could have more, making Brendon actually hope for something--someone--out of his reach, only to be struck in the face by reality when he reached for it.

Brendon was roused from his reverie by the sound of the door latch catching. He turned to see Spencer at the closed door, watching Brendon with a far away expression. Brendon stopped playing and lowered his head in greeting.

“You can keep playing, William,” Spencer said. “I needed a reprieve from the festivities.” He took a seat near the fire, face hidden by shadow.

Brendon didn’t have many talents, but he was good at voices. All night he’d been perfecting a Northern, aristocratic drawl, and he spoke with it now. “Are you not enjoying the attention of the ladies, My Lord?”

Spencer gave him a curious look, and Brendon froze, certain he’d been discovered. But Spencer looked away and said, “The one whose attention I desire is not in attendance this evening.”

That somehow made it worse, to know for certain there was a particular lady whose company Spencer desired, and that she did not even deign to attend his birthday masque. No doubt, despite her careless handling of Spencer’s heart, she would be the one he named, when the time came for him to make his announcement. Brendon couldn’t find an adequate response, and so he resumed playing, quietly so as not to disturb the prince.

“Do you suppose it would make me a selfish ruler to marry for love?” Spencer mused.

There was no way to know how a member of nobility would answer such a question; their priorities were so different from those of the common folk. He knew, of course, that there were often political motivations--but the fact that the king and queen had thrown this ball, with all these women from whom Spencer could choose, made Brendon think that wasn’t a concern of theirs. 

He opened his mouth to speak a few times before settling on, “I think you would find the common man less concerned with who you choose to marry than how that marriage will shape the man you will become. I believe the people would prefer their prince to be happy than miserable.”

Spencer let out an unhappy sigh. “I wish my parents saw things the way you do.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but have not the King and Queen made a royal decree that the whomever you name this evening will be the one you wed?” Brendon didn’t know why he was trying to make it _easier_ for Spencer to be with someone else, but it distressed him to see Spencer so sad.

“Are you suggesting that I challenge my parent’s authority in such a public forum?” Spencer asked. He sounded almost amused.

Brendon shrugged, fingers picking out a melancholy melody. “Is she worth the potential repercussions?”

There was a smile in Spencer’s voice, when he spoke. “Without a doubt.”

Brendon’s heart fell somewhere down around his feet. “Then is there any question at all what you should do?”

“Thank you, William,” Spencer said, coming up to stand beside him.

Brendon couldn’t help but look up at him, meeting those familiar blue eyes. There was a peace in Spencer’s expression that Brendon had never seen before. He let his gaze flit over Spencer’s features, drank it all in, and wondered if this was the last time he’d ever see Spencer.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “Are you unwell?” he asked.

Brendon shook his head. “Merely tired, My Lord.” He ducked his head to avoid the concerned look Spencer was giving him.

From somewhere without the room, a chiming clock began it’s melody. Brendon straightened up, glancing the small timepiece over the fireplace which confirmed what he’d feared. He remembered Ashlee’s warning to be gone before the last strike of twelve, and hurried to his feet.

Later, he could not say what possessed him; his body acted entirely without permission from his mind. It was simply that Brendon now had a name for all the strange yearnings and emotions Spencer stirred in him, yet he knew no matter how strongly he loved Spencer, it would never change his situation. 

And so, as the clock began to strike the hour, Brendon threw his arms around Spencer’s neck and drew him close. He whispered, “I hope you find happiness, My Lord,” and before he could think better of it, or remind himself of all the reasons it was a very bad idea, Brendon pressed their lips together in a kiss.

Spencer drew a startled breath and Brendon dropped his arms at once. He took several steps back and touched his mouth absently. “I’m sorry,” he said, and could not wait any longer. The clock was already at three, and if Spencer saw him--if Spencer knew...

Halfway down the hall, he realised he’d forgotten his shoes, and he could hear Spencer calling after him to stop. All he could think about as he ran towards the entrance was the surprised look on Spencer’s face when they’d parted. Brendon hoped he hadn’t caused William any trouble because of what Brendon had done in his guise. 

Outside it was misting and Brendon counted the chimes as he ran down the stairs to where Patrick was waiting, holding open the door of the carriage-- _seven, eight_ \--and all but threw himself inside. Pete snapped the reigns and as they were drawing away, Brendon chanced a glance back at the castle to see a silhouette framed in the light of the grand entrance. 

They travelled quickly down the gravel lane--more quickly than Brendon thought could be possible, but then Pete and Patrick had conjured the carriage out of his old, broken down cart, so he couldn’t dismiss anything as impossible right now. And though they seemed to travel a remarkable distance, Brendon could still hear the clock striking the remainder of the hour as clearly as if he’d stood right beneath it. As it finished, the carriage began to shudder, and drew to a stop, and all around him it seemed to melt, until Brendon was sitting again in his uncle’s cart, with Diamond, her shoe in need of mending and her mane in need of brushing, alone at the end of the reigns.

“Why did you send me there?” Brendon demanded of Pete, who was still in his resplendent suit, though Brendon’s clothing was now back to his patchwork hand-me-downs. “What was the point of making me watch him with all those girls? Did you just want to show me how stupid it was of me to want him? I already knew that!”

Pete put a gentle hand on his shoulder but Brendon shrugged him off. “Hey, kid, there’s only so much we can do for you. The rest you have to do for yourself.”

“Well I’d have been better if you hadn’t done _anything_ for me,” Brendon said.

“Did you _talk_ to him?” Pete asked.

“He asked me for advice on who he should marry!” Brendon shouted. “I had to sit there and smile and tell him what he wanted to hear. Any minute now he’ll be announcing her name, and there’s nothing I could have done to change that. Maybe I could marry another man, or even Lord Beckett and his Duque, but never the prince.”

“Brendon,” Pete said softly, and tried to touch him again.

“Just leave me alone!” Brendon snapped. “There’s no point in you staying around any longer. Go help someone who _wants_ your help.”

Pete and Patrick exchanged a look Brendon couldn’t interpret, and then Pete nodded resignedly. “We’ll go. But Brendon, it might not be as bad as you think.”

Brendon snorted, because he was pretty sure it was _worse_ than he thought, but then Pete and Patrick were gone, as if they’d never been there in the first place, and Brendon was alone on the dark roadside. 

For a long, silent moment, Brendon felt so helpless he wanted to curl up right where he was and cry. His feet felt like blocks of ice and the light rain was making his nose run. When he felt around for the little doeskin purse, he found it missing, and remembered it lying on the piano bench next to him. All the money from the market, gone, and no flour to return home with. He trembled not from the cold, but at the thought of how his uncle would react. Brendon’s Uncle Michael had been waiting up for him when he’d returned home in the early morning hours on Monday. Pete’s magic had taken Brendon far closer to home than he’d first realised, but it was still after one when Brendon arrived at the mill. The lashing Brendon had received left bloody welts up and down his back, which made sleeping on the hard kitchen floor even more of a hardship than usual.

He’d risen Monday after only a few short hours of sleep and gone sluggishly through his daily routine, which had earned him several switches from his aunt. He tried to go faster, if only to avoid the ire of his aunt and uncle, but his head was full of cobwebs and his body didn’t respond how it normally did. All day he felt chilled, even when he curled up by the fire in the evening, wrapped in his blanket, shivering as he inched nearer and nearer to the flames.

When he’d awoken on Tuesday, covered in cinder soot, and attempted to rise, he’d found his legs would not support him. His throat was raw and he could not breath through his nose, and besides the pain from his back impeding his movements, his body was weak and his limbs heavy. When his cousins came in to find their breakfast unmade, no amount of threatened violence could move Brendon from his prostrate position by the fire.

They left him mostly alone once they’d determined he was truly ill and not faking to escape his duties. No one called for a doctor, but he was allowed to sleep as best he could in his miserable state. He didn’t know how long he was ill, drifting in and out of consciousness, but he wondered if this was how his parents had felt, near the end. He was feverish and very frightened, but he tried to take comfort in the thought that he might again be with his parents soon.

And then, on Saturday, the fever broke, and though his back was still angry red along the sores, he could move again. There was no talk of him going to the market. His uncle was still convinced he’d stolen the money and somehow hidden it, and it wasn’t as if Brendon could tell him the _truth_ ; he wouldn’t be believed, even if he spoke it. 

Instead, his cousin Adrian would go to one of the local markets for the time being. He kept giving Brendon threatening looks over it, bitter that his free time was to be impinged upon, and Brendon knew that when it came, the punishment would be worse than anything his aunt or uncle might do.

Brendon spent his Saturday working at the quern stone, catching up on the heavy corn harvests brought in by the local farmers. He couldn’t help but think of Spencer, though he hadn’t allowed his thoughts to wander there in his illness. On any regular Saturday, they would be together just now, Spencer crouched under the table of the stall, trading secrets, or opinions, or just small talk.

Even if Brendon had been at the market, he doubted very much that Spencer would be visiting him this week. There were rumours, even this far from the city, that Prince Spencer had announced his intention to marry a commoner, and apparently it had caused quite a stir with his royal parents. Brendon couldn’t help the sadness he felt, but was bittersweet, when he thought that at least Spencer would be happy with the girl he’d chosen.

Perhaps they would meet again someday, when Brendon escaped his uncle’s home and made his way back into the city. Maybe when Spencer was king, he would stop by Brendon’s stall at the market and ask his opinion on affairs of the state, or maybe just Dupin’s newest publication, and Spencer would smile that achingly beautiful smile, and Brendon would force himself to be content. 

* 

Brendon was in the mill, bagging the cornmeal and separating Uncle Michael’s share of each load, when he heard a carriage approaching. He thought nothing of it--farmers and tradesmen often came to the mill to drop of and pick up loads or make purchases. He finished storing his uncle’s share and headed to the main house to clean up for dinner.

There were loud voices coming from the front of the house when he arrived, and though he couldn’t make out the details of the argument, he did hear mention of stealing, and it sounded quite fierce. Brendon wasn’t surprised. Since no one but himself and his uncle were allowed inside the mill, it was easy for Michael to take more than his fair share. Still, Brendon had known the day would come when one of the farmers caught him at it, and though he knew it was unkind to think it, Brendon was silently pleased his uncle had been found out.

Dinner still needed making, no matter what was going on in the front, and so Brendon washed his hands and started a pot of water to boil, then set to work on peeling the potatoes. After several minutes, the shouting died down to soft murmurs, and so Brendon was surprised when the kitchen door burst open with excessive force, and his Aunt Catherine came in, red in the face. 

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. She looked furious, but there was no time to ask her to clarify what the matter was, or for her to take her temper out on him, because behind her was Spencer, looking equally furious and heading for Brendon.

Brendon stumbled backwards, hit his knee on a chair, and stood frozen, waiting. Of course Spencer had discovered it had been him at the ball. His pouch had contained Spencer’s own book, which he’d lent to Brendon. And now Brendon must deal with the consequences of his hasty actions. He tried to steel himself for what was to come, lifted his chin with as much defiance as he could. He was not sorry for stealing a kiss, knowing it was all he would ever get.

Spencer grabbed him by the arms in a tight grip and Brendon’s heart felt as though it might burst from his chest. Except all the anger fled from Spencer’s face to be replaced with gentle concern and he said, “Brendon,” in a way Brendon had never heard his name spoken before. And then Spencer was holding him close, arms wrapped tightly around him.

Brendon couldn’t help but return the gesture, his dirty fingers clinging to Spencer’s soft overcoat. Spencer smelled vaguely sweet, and his embrace was warmer than the threadbare blanket Brendon used every night. His hug drove away the chill that had seemed to linger even after Brendon’s fever had broken. Brendon closed his eyes and buried his face in Spencer’s neck, and wished never to move from the spot.

There was murmuring behind them, and Brendon was reminded that his aunt was present, as well. The thought made him lift his head to look over Spencer’s shoulder, where Brendon could see his family gathered in the kitchen doorway, as well as Zachary and another man who was unfamiliar to him, all watching them.

“Spencer?” Brendon said uncertainly. “What’s go--” he was silenced by Spencer’s mouth pressed to his twice in quick succession. When Spencer’s eyes met his, Brendon could only stare blankly at him, aware somewhere in the peripheral of his mind of the reversal in their position from their first kiss.

“Do you know how many millers there are within a three hour cart ride of the city?” Spencer demanded of him, tone sharp, but mouth smiling.

Brendon shook his head mutely. 

“Luckily your friend Greta from the market was able to help after the sixth day of searching. Lovely girl.”

“I like Greta,” Brendon said inanely.

Spencer gave him a shrewd look. “Not too much, I hope.”

“Too much?” Brendon echoed, baffled.

Spencer stepped back enough to put some space between their bodies and took both of Brendon’s hands in his own. With a gentle tug, he guided Brendon into the kitchen chair, and then went down on his knee. “You see, my main concern with naming the person whom I had chosen to marry was that I was uncertain that he would consent.”

Brendon was mostly busy trying to wrap his mind around the idea of anyone in their right mind refusing Spencer’s hand that it took him a moment to process the rest of what had been said. “He?”

Spencer smiled, face tilting close to Brendon’s, and Brendon wondered what it would be like to kiss him again, only longer. To mould his mouth around Spencer’s full bottom lip rather than the soft, almost insubstantial press of lips they’d exchanged so far. The mere thought made shivers go down Brendon’s spine, but from warmth, not cold. “Spencer?” he asked, heart so high in his throat he could barely get the name out.

“I was fairly certain of the answer when I found your pouch and realised it was you I’d spoken to in my receiving room, but as you pointed out, the person I named would, by royal decree, become my betrothed, and so instead I announced that the person of my choosing was the one whose foot fit these shoes.” 

As Spencer spoke, the man with Zachary gave a wry smile and produced a pillow, upon which Brendon’s old boots sat. Brendon looked blankly from the shoes to Spencer’s face and back again, willing his pulse to cease its racing. Spencer could not mean what Brendon thought he did, and yet. 

“Yes,” the man said, “and you wouldn’t believe how many of the noble ladies were happy to lay claim to a muddy pair of men’s boots in the ensuing riot, though amazingly it fit none of them. No matter how dainty the foot, it would not go in.”

Brendon’s foot wasn’t particularly small for a man’s, and it seemed to him that a lady’s foot should quite easily fit inside his boot. Unless Pete had done something special to it...Spencer lifted Brendon’s right foot to his knee, removing the work shoe from Brendon’s foot. His hand swept lightly up the curve of Brendon’s ankle, even such a simple touch making Brendon yearn for more. 

The man offered Spencer the boot, and Spencer held it, poised at Brendon’s foot. “Would this shoe fit you, Brendon?” he asked.

Brendon had to swallow twice, and even then he did not trust his own voice. So instead of answering he pushed his foot forward into the boot, and even before it was fully on, Spencer was arching up to kiss him again, whispering against his mouth. “You’ll marry me, Brendon, say you’ll marry me.”

It was silly to cry now--Brendon had never been happier in his life, his chest was full to the bursting--but he couldn’t help the tears that leaked from the corners of his eyes. He nodded, murmured, “Yes,” and fit his mouth to Spencer’s just how he’d imagined doing, uncaring of who saw it. 

And they lived happily ever after...


End file.
